


Dau-n't Be a Pussy

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored
Genre: Fugue Feast in July, Gen, Mild Cursing, knife games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Some interaction between Daud and Lizzy Stride.</p><p>A short piece for Sparkle-face at Fugue Feast in July on tumblr. Daud and Lizzy Stride meet casually at a pub and play a game.</p><p>May be expanded later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dau-n't Be a Pussy

The bar is dark. It smells of mold, blood, spilled liquor, and an undertone of old piss. The countertop beneath his hands is nicked, scratched, and stained within an inch of its life. A series of deep gauges are marked a few inches away from each other, curved into an arch. Dozens of nicks lay one on top of the other, stacked in layers until they resemble bursts of little stars. Dots of blood darken the bare wood that peeks through the varnish. On a whim, Daud extends a hand and places it in the center of the dots. They nestle perfectly between his splayed fingers.

A beer bottle thuds onto the wood above his hand. Brown liquid sloshes inside of it, murky with some substance he’d care not to know. A familiar figure stands at his side, thin and lanky and clothed in various odds and ends. He recognizes her presence before her voice, and turns to look at her before she begins to speak.

“Five finger filet?” she asks in her distinctive voice, like the angry murmur of a nest of Pandyssian hornets.

He peels his hand from the counter and curls it into a loose fist. Not a smile, but the slightest hint of fond memory blooms in his eyes as he remembers gouging similar marks in pubs across Gristol.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Come on,” she says, swinging her skinny frame onto a stool next to him. “Don’t be a pussy.”

He fixes her with the most venomous look imaginable. Any normal person would cower in fear, perhaps beg for mercy from the death lurking in his dark green eyes. Not Lizzy Stride, however. She leans toward him, tilting her body just enough to emphasize the mischievous grin on her lips, and draws a knife from her belt. Unsheathed, it is an impossibly thin blade of metal, sharpened again and again until its edges are nearly translucent, like he could see a candle flame flickering through its surface like eggshell or parchment.

Likewise, the sharpened teeth that peek out in her smile do nothing to intimidate the Knife of Dunwall. They are an even match, each equally unimpressed by the other. They have known each other a long time, seen the city writhe and change, at times by their own hands. Daud drops the glare of hatred almost as soon as it comes. Force of habit is hard to break; that look has served as a greeting of sorts between the two of them for years.

He replaces the grimace with a sigh, relaxing in his seat. Where she leans forward, he slumps back, his elbow braced on the low back of his stool.

“What are we betting for, you hateful bitch?”

How ‘bout this?” she says, a playful glint in her eyes. “I win, you pick up my tab for the night.”

“And if I win, you leave me alone?”

She snorts, not an elegant sound, but one quintessentially Lizzy. “Whatever you want, you crusty bastard. Fuckin’ spirits, when’d you get such a stick up your ass?”

“The moment that I realized the alternative would be turning into you.”

They eye each other for a moment, both gone quiet. At last, Daud breaks the silence and stillness by extending a hand, still looking at her like one might eye the remains of a crushed rat on the floor of a wine cellar.

“Just give me the damn knife already, so we can get this over with.”

She hands the knife over, blade first. He takes the razor tip between two fingers and flips it into the air casually, catching it by the handle. In the same fluid motion, he slaps his left hand onto the table and begins to stab into the table around it, from the right of his thumb, to the spaces between his fingers, to the left of his little finger, and back again. Though he begins slowly, the pace quickens until the blade is a silver blur and tiny bits of wood fly from the counter. Daud’s face is calm, even serene, locked in focus that comes as naturally to him as breathing.

With an abrupt halt, his motion ends, and he holds the knife out to Lizzy.

Her initial speed is much faster than his was at first, though she builds momentum much more slowly. The knife continues to dig wood from the counter, the holes left behind deepening with every passing second. The blade is a silver blur, and even Daud’s practiced eyes have trouble focusing on the details of its outline, waiting to see if she will nick her slender fingers.

Eventually, he grows bored with watching her, and swipes the knife from her hand himself. The pattern he takes up next is much more complex, alternating and interweaving between fingers at a far more advanced level. Though it means risking his own skin, he risks a glance at Lizzy’s face. What he sees there gives him enormous satisfaction. From a woman as hardened with blood and river grime as the one sitting across from him, her slightly wide-eyed, mildly grinning expression is an indicator of fantastic skill.

He sees her for only an instant, but imagines the thoughts that run through her head after he turns his attention away. There is no way, he tells himself, that she could possibly succeed. Even he is beginning to fear for himself. Though he wouldn’t dare to use his Void powers to win the bet, Daud grasps at any vestige of ability that might allow him to go just an iota faster.

All at once, every motion seems to slow. There is an eternity between the moment he raises the knife into the air and the moment that it plunges into the wood, slicing deeply into the side of his middle finger.

Abject horror and unfathomable confusion fill him at the realization that he has injured himself. The pain is nothing to him, but he sits in shock nonetheless. It takes him a moment to notice Lizzy’s hand wrapped around the handle of the knife, her palm pressing against the back of his hand.

“Son of a bitch,” Daud says without a thought.

“I am the bitch,” comes Lizzy’s reply. “Now,” she says, levering the knife from the table and slipping it back into its sheath, “I think you owe me a few drinks.”


End file.
